


Would a gentleman hold a bone-saw to a lady’s throat?

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Death Threats, F/M, oh sarge never change, sarge takes a hostage during a surgery and grey gets a crush: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:54:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: People are pretty predictable. If they’re hurt, they’re upset. If they’re safe, they’re either happy or bored. And if you perform life saving surgery on their friend, they’re tearfully grateful.“One wrong move, missy,” he said gruffly, “and you’ll be red all over.”This man was not people. Notjust.





	Would a gentleman hold a bone-saw to a lady’s throat?

People are pretty predictable. If they’re hurt, they’re upset. If they’re safe, they’re either happy or bored. And if you perform life saving surgery on their friend, they’re tearfully grateful.

“One wrong move, Missy,” he said gruffly, “and you’ll be red all over.” The bone-saw (sharpened by her just that morning) didn’t waver in the slightest, and it was pressed just closely enough to her throat that she could feel a sharp point scrape lightly over her skin. She could feel how well muscled he was from the way he pressed up against her back, nothing but a few thin layers of scrubs between them, her’s the ones of a surgeon and his the one of of a patient. She’d performed some life saving surgery on him as well, only hours prior. He must have woken up and launched into action the second his anesthesia started wearing off.

She had no doubt in her mind that he could and would saw open a huge, gaping gash in her throat in less than a second if she gave him an excuse. Her blood would gush and she’d be dead within a minute, irreparable damage. Not repairable within the deadline of blood loss, at least.

People in this man’s position would be groggy from their recent surgery. They’d be unsure and confused about their current situation. They would be tearfully grateful that she was fixing his friend, scared that their friend needed her help in the first place.

This man was not people. Not _just._

“I assure you,” she said with a perfectly pleasant smile, “I am a professional, Sergeant…?” She’d read Locus’ painfully detailed and dry report of the fight that had landed so many Feds (and a few new people that were rapidly growing more and more interesting in her mind) on her operating table, transcripts of this strange man’s missing squad members dramatically and tearfully yelling out “SARGE!” as he went down. So she knew his rank, at least.

“Sarge,” he said firmly.

And that would be the only thing she’d know about him, apparently.

“Sergeant Sarge,” she said.

“That’s right.”

With cautious slowness, she went back to cutting Private Donut in a way that would help him.

“Is that a family name, Sergeant Sarge?” She was hit with the strong image of a hairdresser making small talk with their customer while snipping their hair, and she had to suppress a giggle. Bad timing, it might come off as mocking. Besides, the metaphor wasn’t perfect. It was more like she was making small talk with some lunatic who’d burst into her hair salon and held her at gunpoint while she gave some poor unconscious man a rather unfortunate perm.

“My papi was named Captain, my ma Commander, my papi’s papi general, and _his_ papi was called Lieutenant. It’s a bit of a tradition.”

“Military family, then?” Snip, snip, right through the meat, what are you studying at college? Do you want it a little shorter at the back?

“No, I’m the first one in the army.”

She thought about that for a moment. “What were their jobs?”

“Captain papi was in retail, Commander ma in finance, General papipapi shone shoes, and Lieutenant papipapipapi worked in the mines.”

“... How old are you?” The _mines?_ It had been quite a while since coal had been a thing. Maybe he meant mining something else? Like _what?_ Her curiosity was driving her up into a tizzy, and now really wasn’t the time for that, even if she _was_ a great multitask-er.

“It’s rude to ask a gentleman’s age, Fed!” he said indignantly as she slowly reached for a different scalpel, careful not to lean into the bonesaw.

“Would a gentleman hold a bone-saw to a lady’s throat?”

“Well,” he sniffed. “All’s fair in love and war.”

“And which one is this?” she couldn’t help but coyly ask. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had interested her in _this_ way. Sure, she desperately wanted to psychoanalyze Locus nine different ways to Sunday, but that just wasn’t the same.

He paused. She removed a bullet from Private Donut’s gut. Hardy man, to have survived until she got her hands on him. Actually, it looked like that bullet had been there for a _while._ Like, years? It was in such an easy to remove place, as well… Emily smiled. She was surrounded by interesting people, it seemed.

“I don’t see,” Sarge said carefully, “why the two have to be mutually exclusive.”

“You’re my kind of man,” she said, because she hadn’t wasted a day in her life with not being forward. Her nurse, silent until now, whimpered with confusion, incredulity and mortal terror from where he was hiding underneath the operating table.

“I _will_ kill you if he dies on you no matter how sweet you are, you little minx!” he warned her.

 _My kind of_ soldier, she corrected herself.

She didn’t tend to gamble, mostly because it was downright boring how often, and with such certainty, that she won, and people learned not to take bets against her far too soon for her to make much of a profit anyways. But a gamble with two lives on the table, including her own? How could she decline, or fail to be excited?

“And what’s in it for me if I save his life?” she asked.

“You mean besides living to see another day?”

“Yes, besides that. Sweeten the pot a little bit for me, Sergeant!”

She’d started removing miscellaneous shrapnel from Private Donut by the time he came up with his answer. “I might be persuaded to let you take me out on a date, if he makes it,” he said with faked reluctance.

Her smile widened. She’d never met someone she was so close to being on the same wavelength as. There was just enough of a deviation for him not to be as painfully predictable as most people. “Well, shoot, now I _have_ to make sure he survives.”

“Just as planned!” he crowed victoriously. And then, in a somewhat furtive aside, “It’s red roses or nothing, get out of here with that daisy crap.”

“Noted,” she said. She started sewing Private Donut up.

The bone-saw hadn’t wavered once from its perilously close position to her throat during the conversation/surgery. She liked a man with steady hands. 


End file.
